


you're the only friend i need

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Series: ribs [4]
Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Devotion, Fear and How to Overcome It, First Kiss, M/M, Metaphors, Pre-Canon, Sunset Curve (Julie and The Phantoms), Winter, anyway, be who you are no compromise, because it's Me and i ~don't know how to write~, but they're not catholic in this one! fuck yeah, don't ask me to explain why, i also don't know, i don't KNOW they're in LOVE leave me BE, it's just a metaphor for loving yourself, let your colours blind their eyes, okay now that that's out of the way, okay you know that one line in edge of great, that is a tag apparently, that's it that's what this fic is about, thats IT that is ALL, winter is inherently the gayest season, yes i wrote this at 4am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28293210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: Alex’s eyes on him are too harsh, too heavy. There’s a glass wall between them that holds their understandings apart. It cracks slightly, right near Bobby’s heart.-or; a quiet moment together.
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Bobby | Trevor Wilson, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Alex Mercer & Luke Patterson & Reggie Peters
Series: ribs [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050923
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	you're the only friend i need

**Author's Note:**

> this pairing is EMPTY and i needed this extended metaphor in my life and that is the ONLY reason this was made okay? okay. glad we're on the same page

“They’re not gone,” Alex says, completely unprompted. Bobby turns a page in his book and waits for him to continue. It takes a minute. That happens, with Alex. He throws out a word or a phrase because he’s too wrapped up in his mind to breathe through it, and then he has to steady his lungs again before he can explain it. His eyes aren’t on Bobby. They’re on the floor, the ceiling, the walls, covering the whole studio in his gaze, covering the whole studio in his image, covering the both of them in the world he sees. When that world drops down over Bobby, he tilts his head up, meeting it easily. Alex’s eyes can be intense. Harsh with fear, hard with defence, uncomfortable and overwhelming, but not to Bobby. They’re not intense to him. He’s more at home when he’s in Alex’s world. “They’re not gone,” he repeats. “Luke and Reggie.”

Bobby closes his book, setting it aside. “No, they’re not,” he agrees. Luke and Reggie have gone home. Or Reggie has, at least. Luke’s been going home less and less these days. It scares Bobby, frightens him down to his bones, but he can’t do jackshit about it without Luke coming to him, so he just stays in the studio. He stays with Luke’s guitar, with his music, because Luke is connected to his music in a way that means he’ll always come back, and if Bobby can wind himself into that invisible reel, he can be the buffer Luke needs when he comes crashing down. If he can tangle himself into the thing that keeps Luke from hitting rock bottom, he can help pull him up. So he stays in the studio and he waits for Luke to come to him.

But Luke isn’t with him right now. Alex is, and he’s nodding slowly. “They left,” he says. “But they’re not gone.”

Bobby eyes him carefully. “Do you want them to be?”

“No.” Alex taps his sticks against his knees. “Maybe. I don’t-” he sighs. “They’re like…” he goes quiet again.

Bobby opens his book. “You have a nice voice.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.” Ah shit, he didn’t mark his page. “You have a nice voice.” It hovers between them. Alex’s eyes on him are too harsh, too heavy. There’s a glass wall between them that holds their understandings apart. It cracks slightly, right near Bobby’s heart.

He looks up, and the driving force in Alex’s eyes skitters away, leaving the divide intact between them. The relief inside his lungs is hollow, but hollow air is the most familiar to breath. “They’re like ghosts,” Alex says. “They’re not here, but they still are.”

“Are they?”

Alex’s throat works. “Yeah.” His voice is faint. “They’re still here.” The glass quivers slightly between them. There is a moment between breaths where Bobby aches to shatter it, but then he breathes in, then he turns hollow from the inside out, and he remembers his fear of the pieces. “They can see me,” Alex continues quietly.

Bobby doesn’t quite know what to say. His eyes fall down onto the page in front of him. He’s already read this part. He doesn’t turn the page, though. He just keeps staring at the familiar words. They run on repeat through his mind. He can’t flip past. He can’t break their melody.

“You’re not a ghost,” Alex says, very suddenly. “Or, at least, not always.”

Bobby swallows. “I don’t leave very often,” he replies.

“I’m glad.” Alex sounds sincere. Bobby doesn’t know what to do with that. “Do you want to be a ghost?”

“A ghost to you? Or a ghost at all?”

“Either.”

Bobby thinks about it. Does he want to be a ghost? Does he want to leave remnants of himself behind when he goes? Does he want to linger? Does he want to imprint himself into the lives he’s abandoned, present in absence, vivid in his faded form? Does he want a secondary self?

“I don’t want to be a ghost,” he decides. The words come slowly, rolling off his tongue like cotton, like heather. “I want to choose my own moments. I want to be able to fade.” He flips the page. “I would like to be a ghost to you, though. I want you to remember me.”

Alex nods. “Good,” he says. “Good. I want to remember you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

It’s a familiar sentiment. They exchange it often. It’s a part of them. The band, that is. Luke writes music, but he writes love, too. He writes devotion into every note, passion into every chord, familiarity and acceptance into each word. Home is in the sound of Luke’s voice, the vibration of Reggie’s bass, the twang of Bobby’s guitar, and most importantly, home is in Alex’s drums. The beat is the beat of Bobby’s heart reiterated as rhythm. Their souls are laid out together on each page, all entangled and mixed up, twining around each other and twisting into something brilliant and vibrant and new. It’s forever surprising how easy it is to be part of them; it’s forever enthralling how easily Alex draws him even closer, tugging him in by a gravity he’s too enraptured to dissect. It’s forever amazing how home is in the drumline. It’s forever Alex. It’s forever familiar. The love is part of him. It beats in time with the drums.

He almost reaches out, but the glass will rupture under his fingertips, and he can’t afford to stand among the pieces.

He flips back to the page he’d been staring at before, but it’s uncomfortable to read it again. He can’t quite remember what was so interesting about it before. He wants to keep reading. He doesn’t.

Alex beats out a small rhythm against his knees. Bobby nods along to it. The discomfort stretches in his muscles, though, and each moment jolts at his stomach until he feels sick. He flips the page again. “What about you?” Alex pauses. “Do you want to be a ghost?”

Alex stares at him for a long, long moment, and then he says, “I don’t want to die.”

“Is that an option?”

“It could be, couldn’t it?” His eyes fall sharp and solid against Bobby again. The crack in the glass widens. “Why should I have to?”

“It’s natural,” Bobby points out. “Everybody does.”

Alex shrugs. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Just because everybody does doesn’t mean they don’t decide to,” he says. Bobby swallows hard. His throat feels tight. “I don’t  _ want  _ to,” Alex repeats.

Bobby takes a deep breath to steady himself. The hollowness is dizzying when he’s been drenched in the world Alex sees. “Well, I don’t want to either. But everybody does,” he replies.

“We could live forever.”

Why couldn’t they?

Bobby looks up at him. “They’re not ghosts,” he says abruptly, and then slams his book shut, rising to his feet. “They’re gone.” Alex is frozen staring up at him. Bobby takes a step closer. The glass shudders between them. “They’re gone,” he repeats. “It’s just us. Just say what you mean.”

“You’re like snow,” Alex says instead. “Pretty. Make life nicer.” His fingertips brush the glass as he stretches out his hand, and it tremors like it’s at war with itself. “I’ve always liked snow.”

Bobby can’t breathe for fear of breathing in something numb. For now, he would rather feel vivid and wrecked than numb and contained and dizzy, trapped lightheaded inside his own skin with no escape. “What about me?” he asks faintly.

It’s enough. The glass shatters immediately, spilling out across the studio floor.

Alex’s hand snags the front of his shirt, and then he’s yanking him in, and the two of them are tangling themselves around each other, into each other, their lips meeting almost desperately in the middle. Alex’s hands keep clenching onto his shirt, dragging him in semi-violently, as Bobby’s hands cinch in blonde hair, praying desperately to be attacked. To be wrecked and destroyed and left in pieces. To be written into music. To be beaten apart into the beat of the groups. To be left as a ghost. To be seen and felt by nobody but Alex, Alex,  _ Alex. _

The kiss itself isn’t familiar, but it feels like it is. It tastes like home. It tastes like rhythm and beat and the steady pounding of the drums.

Alex is breathing heavily when it breaks. They don't pull too far apart. Bobby doesn't open his eyes. Alex's hands stay clenched in his shirt, and Alex's breath stays hot on his lips, and Alex  _ stays-  _ God, Bobby has never wanted anything else. He just wants Alex to stay.

He slowly loosens his grip on Alex's hair and lets his arms fall so that they're wound around his neck. Alex tugs on him. Their chests are pressed together, hearts beating solid against each other; Bobby opens his mouth to speak, and Alex's breath slips past his lips, and his lungs swell with something full for the first time. There's completion inside him. He forgets what he meant to say.

Alex kisses him again, a little gentler. "We can be special," he murmurs against Bobby's mouth. "We can be  _ better.  _ We don't have to die."

The glass is shattered underfoot, sure, but it doesn't cut his feet. It lays like freshly fallen snow, glittering and shining and capturing the both of them in the closeness. It's shattered. Bobby can't remember why he was so scared.

He kisses Alex, hard and fast and with a bite, and then slow and careful and sweet, and then deep and intense and lingering, teaching himself how to breathe in a way that isn't hollow. "Fuck never dying," he says. "I think I've just been born."

Alex's eyes don't rove about the room. They stayed fixed on Bobby, soaking him and drenching him in Alex's gaze, Alex's mind, Alex's faith- for this moment, he  _ is  _ Alex's world. "Live with me, then?" he asks hopefully.

"I'd do anything for you," Bobby replies softly. "I'd end the world if you told me it wasn't good enough." His heart is burning. His soul is on fire. He stands in the snow of glass and lets the flames flicker over into Alex. Don't they share a soul? "Yes," he says, as a belated answer to Alex's question, and then he kisses him again.

Luke and Reggie don't see these parts. Their souls don't linger. There are no ghosts in a moment like this.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry it's so short i swear i'll drag my muse out from wherever she's hiding soon <33 comment and lmk what you thought!!! or hit me up on tumblr @rxggiepeters!!! i like talking to yall ((: love you all!!


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